Chapter 2
Stunned, I lifted my head.
A man in a black button-down stood beside me, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his expression grave. A subtle coolness clung to him, as if he'd carried in a breath of the night air.
I recognized him instantly.
Ethan Hayes was a senior from my university's baking club, two years ahead of my class.
He was also the judge who had given me a perfect score from the last row of the panel at the National Collegiate Pastry Competition years ago.
I never imagined running into him at my lowest, most humiliating moment.
Even more surprising, he looked at me and simply asked, "Where's the child?"
"In the emergency room," I replied.
"Go be with her first." He signed the medical form on my behalf, his tone calm and steady. "We can sort everything else out later."
I tried to speak, but my throat closed up, tight and cotton-dry. All that came out was a rough, whispered "Thank you."
Ethan brushed off my gratitude without a word.
He followed me to the observation unit doorway, glancing through the glass at Lily lying on the hospital bed, then his gaze fell to my trembling hands.
"You're bleeding," he said.
Only then did I notice the raw scrape along the back of my hand, torn open during Andrew's rough grip.
Fresh blood trickled down my palm, yet numbness had dulled all sense of pain. I murmured a quiet acknowledgment.
Ethan studied me in quiet contemplation for a long moment before asking, "Sophie, have you forgotten how to cry altogether?"
My nose burned with sharp soreness, tears threatening to spill over at any second.
I teetered on the edge of breaking down entirely. Before I could respond, the sharp click of high heels echoed down the tiled hallway.
Olivia had tracked me all the way to the pediatric ward.
She stood a short distance away, still cradling her stomach, watching me with cautious, doe-like eyes, leaning fully into the role of a vulnerable victim.
"Sophie, Mr. Carter sent me to check on your daughter," she said.
My gaze locked onto the hand sheltering her belly, my tone soft yet laced with icy detachment. "How many months along are you?"
Her face drained of color instantly. "I—"
"Five months? Six months?" I stepped forward slowly, voice still gentle but layered with unmissable coldness. "Counting backward, doesn't that line up perfectly with the time my mother passed away last year?"
Olivia fell completely silent, unable to form a single reply.
I replayed those dark days in my mind. My mother had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and was confined to the hospital for three agonizing days.
I'd split my time endlessly between hospital and home, tending to my mother by day and simmering herbal tonics for Andrew's mother, Margaret Carter, each night, mindful of her chronic high blood pressure.
Andrew had insisted his work at the company left him no spare time, visiting only once for ten brief minutes before rushing off to a work call.
On the day my mother drew her last breath, I'd arranged the entire funeral alone.
Andrew had transferred me 1000 dollars alongside a brief message: [I know this has been hard. Once things calm down, I'll make it up to you.]
All along, he hadn't been swamped with work at all. He'd been by Olivia's side, accompanying her through the early months of her pregnancy.
A bitter, mocking smile touched my lips.
"S-Sophie, it's not what you're thinking," Olivia stammered weakly.
"That excuse seems to be everyone's favorite lately." I held her gaze unflinchingly. "Then tell me. How exactly should I interpret all of this?"
Intimidated by my unyielding stare, Olivia took a small, hesitant step backward.
Andrew arrived just then, his face grim with barely contained fury.
He immediately stepped in front of Olivia, shielding her protectively, and snapped at me in a suppressed growl, "Sophie, enough is enough!"
That instinctive, protective gesture sliced through my heart like a sharp blade.
Seven years of marriage, and Andrew had never once stood up for me.
When Margaret berated me for giving birth to a daughter instead of a son, Andrew had brushed it off, urging me to understand the old-fashioned views of the older generation.
When his sister demanded that I hand over 60 thousand dollars for her wedding expenses, he'd insisted that the family ought not haggle over money.
On the night my mother was rushed to the hospital in critical condition, he'd only coldly claimed work tied him down.
Yet the moment Olivia flinched even slightly, he moved to shield her without a second's hesitation.
It was never that he lacked the instinct to protect.
He simply never deemed me worthy of it.
I did not throw a scene, scream, or shed tears.
Instead, I pressed the medical consent form into his palm, enunciating every word with quiet resolve, "Andrew, either sign this emergency form, or we file for divorce. The choice is yours."
His fingers tightened around the paper, his face freezing in stunned shock. "Sophie, don't try to threaten me with divorce."
I nodded without the slightest hesitation. "Then we're getting divorced."
From inside the observation unit, Lily let out a weak, tearful call. "Mommy..."
I turned toward her without a glance back at Andrew.
That night, Andrew refused to sign the critical care consent form.
I had to sign it myself.
By two in the morning, Lily's fever finally broke, and she drifted into a peaceful sleep in my arms.
Ethan draped his suit coat gently over my shoulders. "I'll drive you home."